


The Hedges Have Ears

by stonecarapace



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Madeleine Era, Prayer, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-14
Updated: 2013-02-14
Packaged: 2017-11-29 05:42:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/683490
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stonecarapace/pseuds/stonecarapace
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>And that voice, always rich and warm, is lower than normal—a deep, private tone, which Javert has never heard. He could be murmuring a grave lesson to the dead plants, or chaste secrets to a lover.</i> Javert enjoys M. Madeleine's voice to excess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Hedges Have Ears

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the kinkmeme.

Javert avoids M. Madeleine at all costs. He has his reasons, all of which he keeps close, for to admit to anyone his suspicions would be foolish, and to admit his personal feelings on any matter is unthinkable. It is possible, even likely, that Javert has never had a confidant, except perhaps his faithful Gymont, to whom he would never tell such secrets—stableboys, after all, have keen ears. He has never kept a journal, excepting one which has a dry account of each night's patrol. Javert's thoughts have nowhere to go but within. 

Normally that is a blessing; in the privacy of his mind, convictions are free to breed and grow strong until they are unbreakable. All debates he might have within himself are resolved with the kind of confidence that only a man who refuses argument can carry. With other matters, however, the endless internal echoes damn him. Upon hearing M. Madeleine's voice and trying to compare it to Jean Valjean's, he cannot cease to think of it. The critical thought of a policeman gives way to a curious level of attention usually reserved for the smitten—he notices the depth, the tones, the shades; the hitches when M. Madeleine's throat is dry, the cracking that occurs when he is hesitant, the melodious way he speaks when handing out alms, as if his soul is bursting with song. (It is a lucky thing Javert has never heard M. Madeleine sing—he is secretly afraid that such a sound would deprive him of sleep for weeks.) 

Javert, who has no vices and is naturally disinclined to baser desires, cannot ignore the way M. Madeleine's voice clings to his memories. Many a night he must give up his bed and pace until he's found something more pressing than the memory of Madeleine's low voice, and the lips which accompany it. 

Therefore, whenever M. Madeleine calls upon Javert, he braces himself to keep a professional façade and prays for a quick end to whatever is the matter at hand. As M. Madeleine seems equally inclined to avoid Javert, this is usually not a problem.

Usually.

It is a Sunday, and most of the town of Montreuil sur Mer rests. Never Javert. He patrols with diligence, scatters a few unruly-looking groups, and, feeling temporarily pleased with the state of the town, is making his way past a church's garden when he hears the unmistakable timbres of M. Madeleine's voice. Javert pauses, surveying the area; the man must be near, but Javert can't see him. He could slip away without M. le Maire ever knowing he had been nearby. As he hesitates, he realizes that M. Madeleine must be alone—his words do not have the casual lilt of conversation but the steady, sombre dialect of prayer. It seems strange that M. Madeleine would do such a thing in public; curiosity piqued, Javert sneaks toward the sound of his voice. 

M. Madeleine is kneeling behind the secrecy of a hedge, in the midst of dead weeds that have not been cleared away. His clothes are dusted with the earth, and his hands, usually calloused but clean, are dirtied from his work. It takes Javert a moment to understand what he's witnessing, but then it strikes him: M. Madeleine is pulling the weeds. A sack of bulbs rests a few yards away from him. As he works, he prays, and he keeps his head down. Though he is focused on the work, and the weeds give resistance, his expression remains serene.

And that voice, always rich and warm, is lower than normal—a deep, private tone, which Javert has never heard. He could be murmuring a grave lesson to the dead plants, or chaste secrets to a lover. Javert crouches down so as to not be seen. Perhaps he will learn something about M. Madeleine—perhaps he will admit to some secrets of his past. Anticipation works with the chill of the wind to make goosebumps rise on Javert's arms, down his spine—that is all.

The prayer Madeleine recites is one that Javert has heard before, but it is not one he would expect Madeleine to know by heart. As he settles down to listen, Madeleine murmurs, "Return unto thy rest, O my soul; for the Lord hath dealt bountifully with thee. For thou hast delivered my soul from death, mine eyes from tears, and my feet from falling..."  


As he speaks, a change comes over Javert; he wrenches his eyes shut—to better listen—and he grips his knee. It is cold, the sky overcast, and surely it will snow today. Javert is warm. It is due to his gloves, he knows, and his uniform with its many layers. That is all. Madeleine grunts as he rips a deeply rooted weed from its resting place, and Javert bites his lip before realizing what he's done and clenching his teeth together instead. 

Madeleine continues. "I believed, therefore have I spoken: I was greatly afflicted: I said in my haste, All men are liars. What shall I render unto the Lord for all his benefits toward me?"

Javert wonders if this is how Madeleine speaks in private, in all of his prayers—in all of his confessions. He has an unbidden image of M. Madeleine peering up at Javert, a confession on his lips, one Javert will never repeat, would never, for he values the dignity of his superiors. The hand on his knee has moved, unbeknownst to Javert, higher up his thigh. 

"I will take the cup of salvation, and call upon the name of the Lord. I will pay my vows unto the Lord now in the presence of all his people." He pauses and lets out a long, burdened sigh. Javert has the benefit—no, the curse—of not knowing his expression, and therefore is allowed to invent one of his own. It is a fortunate thing that no one is soon to pass, for Javert clutches at his inner thigh, and a heartbeat near there makes its effects visible on Javert's face. He thinks of what it might be like to hear M. Madeleine refer to him in such a gentle, esteemed voice. The thought is nearly too much to bear. 

"Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints." Here, M. Madeleine wavers, grieved by some thought or another. The grief, temporary as it is, makes his voice hoarse; Javert's back arches. He is aware of where his hand rests, but he does not move it—not to bring it closer or further from the hardness that is a few inches away. "O Lord, truly I am thy servant; I am thy servant, and the son of thine handmaid." If Javert were watching as intently as he listens, he would see the gravity in M. Madeleine's face as he prepares to speak the next few words. As it is, Javert is very much lost in his thoughts, anchored to reality only by M. Madeleine's words. "Thou hast loosed my bonds."

At this, Javert is forced to stuff his hand against his mouth to keep a perverse noise from escaping; he is very close to the brink. If he moves, he won't be able to stop himself. He stays very still, praying in his own way for mercy, one gloved hand pressed to his mouth and the other clutching at his inseam.

Whatever attempt he's made to suppress the noise was not enough. "Who's there?" M. Madeleine calls, in a different tone entirely—cajoling and friendly. "Do not be afraid, little one; come out."  


Javert curls in on himself as he comes. The act is mindless and abrupt—there is pleasure making his world white and hazy and a tension from his toes, which curl in their boots, to his shoulders, which shudder—and then he's spent, and he is shivering and wondering how on earth he will escape this. Surely his fingers have left red marks on his cheeks; surely his ejaculate will seep until it leaves a visible stain on his trousers. If he stands, Madeleine will know he's there; if he does not respond, Madeleine will come looking and find him regardless. Javert curses himself up and down in the most colorful language available to him. He can't believe he's been so foolish. To add onto his shame is the simple fact that it is a callous thing to listen in on something so private as a man's prayers, something he didn't even think of until now. The wake of his orgasm has left him more clear-headed than he's been since he first discovered M. Madeleine in the garden, and all the more unhappy for it. 

Despite giving himself sterner and sterner commands to _move, you ninny,_ Javert remains crouching. After a moment, Madeleine shifts on his knees—Javert holds his breath—and then, with a vicious ripping of a weed, resumes his prayers. 

Javert decides that he's already humiliated himself quite enough, so adding onto it means very little: Keeping his head low, he crawls along the hedge until he's reached the church. It is only when he's safe behind its stone walls that he stands and brushes himself off. 

_Let this be a lesson_ , he berates himself. He will not let his curiosity damn him twice—not even for the pleasure of M. Madeleine's prayers.


End file.
